It is 1968. I am working with Pat, Subrata Patranobis. There is a knock at the door. The peon whispers - Abhi sab, ‘aapko bara sahab talab kiya’.

I enter Desla’s room. There are no empty chairs. So, I sit on his table. That is quite usual. We call him Desla out of love and regard, He is an outstanding journalist, an artist of quintessential quality and a world class photographer. Desmond Doig, himself is an outward-bound person. His travelogues and memoirs enchant all. He speaks Nepali fluently and a little bit of Assamese too. After the short meeting, he tells me to meet him in the evening at his house. He lives on the 8th floor and uses the stairs both ways!

I take the lift. He is painting. We begin to talk. Tea arrives. Dubby (Bhagat) is there. He joins us. Desla tells us stories of head hunters.

‘Your tea is piss cold,’ Dubby remarks.

I take a sip. Desla takes black tea with lemon and honey. I prefer black tea.

I ask him about his Himalayan adventures. He shares his experience with Sir John Hunt in the team that first scaled the Everest. He and Sir Edmond Hillary are great friends. The phone rings. It is Tenzing Norgay. What a coincidence. They talk on the phone in fluent Nepali. Desla opens an almirah with two 100 watts bulbs inside that he never switches off. He brings out a Leica camera. This is one of the two Leica cameras from his Everest expedition.

‘Take this. It’s for you.’

I find it difficult to believe. Am I dreaming? A camera and that too a Leica being given to me by a person who is a member of the first team that went up the Everest.

I have no words to thank him. A ‘thank you’ is an insult to this person. He casually asks me if I am interested in going to Nagaland.

‘It’ll be two or more trips.’

‘Why not’? I reply. He has that enchanting smile.

I have to go to Nagaland and take photographs. He has friends in Nagaland in the seats of power. He, being a British citizen, is not allowed to take photographs. He has an article but no photographs. He is particularly interested in the Konyak head hunters. But it will take time. For coordination, I’ll need to go to Kohima.

Desla gives me several letters to people in prominent positions.

My job is to meet them and learn the dos and don’ts. Each of them talks to me for hours.

I have to behave in a way by which they treat me as a friend.

I am warned not to stray out in the evenings. I am also warned not to go anywhere without an escort. I take photographs if I spot the photography- prohibited board. There are places where I think the No Photography notice is a big joke. I have this uncanny habit of doing things that someone forbids me to do. I go to places that are marked out of bounds. I do what I feel like. I am certain news of my misdeeds will reach him. On return, fearing a rebuke in front of the whole office, I duck for a couple of days. The inevitable note arrives.

It is nearly five months before I go to Nagaland again. This time, my friend, Basudeb Mookerji accompanies me. Basudeb from the advertising domain, is also half mad like me. Instead of travelling to places of tourist interest, he decides to rough it out with me. Both of us know what lies ahead. We know we have to endure a lot of discomfort and certainly some risks.

We reach Jorhat only to find that there is no transport available to take us to Mokukchung.

A friend of my father is a lawyer in Jorhat. His client supplies material to Mokukchung. He has a Tata truck. But the driver is on leave. He has no idea when the driver is likely to return. He agrees to allow us to drive the truck to Mokukchung provided we deliver his material. We agree. So, we drive the

loaded truck all the way to Mokukchung through the winding roads and through a layer of dirt and mist.

From Mokukchung, we have to go to Tuensang. This is end of 1968 and there is hardly any proper track or surface one can describe as a road. We met Rajender Singh Bedi who is an Extra Assistant Commissioner. A young sardarji, a few years older than us, he is also, in a way, mad like us.

The three mads get in to his jeep that is carrying some 8 large bags of salt and a naga bare bodied guy with feathers on his head. So, there are no seats, we sit on the salt sacks. As we bounce along, we notice how differently the old and the young react.

The hilly winding road passes through dense jungle. Raj’s driver is Bhim. He has some other name but Bedi prefers to call him Bhim.

The jeep hardly has any brake and slows down on the hilly tracks after Bhim’s rapid 5-6 pumps on the brake. He tells me, ‘Only five pumps Sir’. And en route, we have at least 7-8 tyre punctures. There are no spare wheels.

Each time, Bhim repairs the tyre using the crudest instruments. Not once but several times the jeep’s completely bald tyres get no traction from the jungle path and needs human power.

Bedi has a two-room bamboo wall tin roof bungalow a few kilometers from Wakchung. One room is his office and the other is where he has a ‘char

paiya’ cot to sleep. All of us sleep on the floor in our sleeping bags.

Almost daily we walk miles up and down the adjoining 

hills to reach some village. We go to Mon and Chui and even beyond. At most places, the Aang, leader offers us fly

infested ‘madhu’, the local drink, in a hollow horn, and there is no way we can refuse.

There is always a fire burning inside the huts and often we see something being roasted. In one house, the Ang or the village head offers me a bite. It is a rat that is being roasted on the fire. Bedi whispers to me in English, ‘Don’t refuse.’

So, it is some kind of a test that I need to pass. I remember my friend P C Sorcar – how I wish he was with me… time I learn some magic. Late in the afternoon, we walk across to the hut of the Chief Headhunter.

He stands proudly in front of the wooden racks.

I count. There are more than 300 human skulls.

‘There were many more. The last head hunt was 20 years ago’ – he says and Bedi translates.

‘The young don’t have the courage anymore.’

Thank God for that!

A moth flies in and sits on his shoulder. At lightning speed, he grabs it and puts it in his mouth.

‘Good for health.’ Bedi nods.

 His black, tattooed face and the axe he carries in his hand give me the jitters.

Yet, he is calm and quite friendly. When he smiles, I see black teeth. He shows me a piece of wood with four horns on top and a lock of hair dangling beneath it.

‘The hair belongs to a girl I killed long ago.’

‘I used to wear it when I went headhunting. Good old days. And as the hairs swayed against my thigh

muscles, it pumped blood and gave me strength to fight evil spirits. Those days are all gone.’

 The young arrives. Each of them carries a spear and an axe. One has a muzzle loader. Their faces are tattooed black. More than one has a .12 bore bullet case in their earlobes. Having seen so many persons with .12 bore bullets in their ear-lobes, I gather this is the substitute sign of bravery and manliness.

The old man peers at my camera. Bedi explains that it will not cast any spell on him or his grandson. It will make him known across the hills as a great hunter. That pleases him. How pleased he is I find in a moment. He orders for an axe.

A brand new axe appears from inside his hut.

He presents me with the lock of hair and the axe.

‘Tell them I am a good hunter.’